


Bealtaine

by Salmagundi



Series: Bealtaine-verse [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Financial Crisis Gangbang, Gang Rape, Gangbang, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmagundi/pseuds/Salmagundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other countries want to help America's economy improve - the easiest way is to get him laid by as many other nations as possible. Alfred refuses to work with them so they have to take matters into their own hands.  Noncon/Dubcon, Rape Trauma/Recovery. [Fill for the Hetalia Kinkmeme]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was done as a fill for a request on the Hetalia Kinkmeme. The majority of the story content is actually in book 2: Vola and focuses on the aftermath of rape and America's slow road to recovery. However, as the OP requested the actual rape scene, I have included it here.

  
**~Bealtaine~**

"I don't like this any more than you do, Angleterre," France's voice was only slightly muffled by the closed door, and America paused upon hearing it, blinking. They didn't like what? These long boring meetings about the whole global economy issue? America could hardly say he was all that thrilled himself, especially considering how badly they'd chewed him out over the previous stock market crash. The humiliation had been worse than the economic depression itself.

 

He'd gotten the invitation to this meeting only a few hours ago. Why they'd decided to meet right now he wasn't so sure but considering the fact that several of the nations hadn't been invited, he would at least be spared the humiliation of being verbally reamed in front of everyone. That didn't mean he was happy about the situation - England was pretty good at hitting where it hurt most, namely: his pride. He was only grateful that Canada had declined to come - it spared him the further indignity of being ranted to tears. Again.

 

With a sigh, he decided to get it over with. Pushing open the door, he stepped inside and froze as the conversation died. A couple of the nations looked at each other, hesitance flitting across their faces. None of them looked at him. America might not have been adept at reading the atmosphere - granted it was mostly because he didn't want to bother taking the time, he was the hero and really, that was too trivial a detail for him to worry about - but he certainly knew how. Right now, the atmosphere in the room was throwing him for a loop, but there was something about it that sent cold prickles down his spine.

 

After a long moment of this continued silence, all eyes turned to England, expectant. It was impossible to miss the slight slump in England's shoulders at this, the discomfort flitting through his green eyes. "Alfred," he greeted, more cordial than America had ever heard him before. His tone set off alarms in the back of America's mind, but he was determined not to show his unease in front of them. He strode toward his usual spot at the conference table, his movements brisk to hide the uncertain tremble in his limbs. Even as he tried to ignore them, he was aware that all eyes followed his every move.

 

England gave him that look again, stressed, fretful. America knew that expression. "Oh, just spill it Arthur! It's not going to get any easier if you draw it out. Just do it quickly - like ripping off a band-aid." Not that America ever ripped off band-aids like that. He wasn't crazy. He always peeled them off as slowly as possible.

 

"Goddamn it, Alfred!" England swore, a flush coming into his cheeks that America recognized as anger and embarrassment. "You never make this easy, do you? You've just got to blunder your way through everything headlong, and damn the consequences! If it weren't for all the rash decisions on your part, we wouldn't even be here!"

 

That was a bit more like the England he knew, but he bristled even through the stab of relief, "Just cool it, Arthur." It wasn't like he'd twisted their arms to get them to agree with his decisions. They'd gone along with him. This wasn't all his fault! "I'm already working on getting this whole financial matter fixed up."

 

"Yes, the banks," This from China, who seemed quietly resigned. "Your attempts to fix this are only prolonging the inevitable, aru."

 

"If any of you had a better idea, you would have mentioned it already," America muttered, his hackles up, "I didn't hear a bunch of brilliant suggestions at the last meeting." So they were going to stand around and tell him about how he was stupid with money? Fine. Let them. That didn't mean he was just going to sit around and listen to them harp on his screw ups while ignoring their own.

 

"We do have a better idea, America-san," Japan said in that controlled tone of his, his voice giving nothing of their intent away. America barely noticed what he was saying, every ounce of his being focused instead on the sound of the door sliding closed, the lock clicking into place.

_-what the fuck did they think they were up to?_

 

America tensed as they finally moved, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he tried to figure out what they were doing and how to counter it. He was outnumbered, but that didn't matter - he was the hero! He could take them all on at once! His gaze darted to England, who was nearest, but who was showing no signs of moving. Japan was close as well, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip but not drawing it yet. Carefully, America shifted in his chair, ready to spring to his feet at the slightest wrong move.

 

He wasn't expecting the world to tumble out from under him.

 

The chair slid from beneath him and sent him to the floor - pain flaring through his hip as he landed awkwardly, hissing and struggling to regain both his equilibrium and his dignity. He would have neither, as a hand snatched at the collar of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. Russia lifted him as easily as he might have picked up a child, one arm sliding around his neck in a move that looked almost affectionate - if not for the fact that it was completely cutting off his air. The world went blank for a few seconds.

 

Clarity ebbed back, but only slowly.

 

"Not like that, you idiot! We're not trying to kill him!"

 

"Then what are you trying to do?" America rasped, the roughness of his own voice surprising him.

 

He could see their flinches - guilt and surprise. "We're trying to help you, Alfred. By any means necessary." What the hell did that mean? Did they really think beating the crap out of him and trying to strangle him was going to 'help' him in some way? Maybe England thought he was being clever and was referring to his so-called 'attitude problems'. Fat chance of anything they could do curing him of that. America thrashed against Russia's hold, finding the grip of the large nation's hands on his wrists to be hard to pull free of.

 

"I doubt he will cooperate, Angleterre..." Nice way to state the obvious, America thought, rage bubbling through his veins at the humiliation of being held so easily. "For his own benefit - as well as our safety, we may wish to use restraints." What the hell? So outnumbering him wasn't enough? They were going to tie him up and then beat him? The assholes weren't even bothering with the pretense of fair play anymore. Well, if they wanted to get a reaction from him, he sure wasn't going to let it be the one they expected. He redoubled his efforts, just to demonstrate that he wasn't planning to go along with this quietly.

 

America bucked and squirmed in Russia's grip, grunting in agitation and pain as his hands were jerked up more firmly behind him, his wrists bound with duct tape - the wrapping tight enough to make it impossible to do anything more than wriggle his fingers. The grip at his nape shifted, and he took immediate advantage, jerking free of Russia's grasping hands and lashing out with one foot, trying to catch his captor in the knee. A well placed kick there would be enough to send anyone to the floor with the pain.

 

It never landed, as two of the others rushed in immediately to grab his arms, dragging him back toward the conference table. Papers went flying as he was jerked onto the smooth surface, still struggling the entire way.

 

He hadn't managed to land a blow on Russia, but he hadn't missed entirely either. France wiped a trickle of blood from his lip, hanging back a short distance from their struggling captive. Germany shifted to the other side of the table to stand by America's head, grasping his shoulders and pinning them down with a strength that America had forgotten the other nation possessed. The others were already trying to grab his legs, to immobilize the one defense he had left to him. A yelp bubbled in his throat as someone caught hold of him by the ankle, the sudden jerk of the motion aggravating his already sore hip. Despite himself, he fell still for a moment, gritting his teeth to stifle the sounds welling in his throat. It was all the opening they needed, pushing his knees up towards his chest in a folded position - more tape being applied liberally around his thighs and calves, this new position making it impossible for him to lash out and kick.

 

More than that, it was sending messages to his subconscious that he really didn't want to hear. His fears were confirmed as Russia approached, holding a pair of scissors - a gleeful expression on his face that would have scared even the bravest of men.

 

Apparently, he wasn't the only one freaked out by the cavalier way Russia was waving the sharp implements around, either. England snatched the scissors out of Russia's hand. "You're not going to just cut a hole in his trousers -" England growled and America fell very still, cold sweat beading at the back of his neck as the pieces fell into place to create the picture his subconscious had been trying very hard to ignore.

 

"He is America, he can get new clothes easily." Russia replied, as reasonably as if they weren't talking about how they were planning to rape him. "Besides, it's better than being kicked, da?" Hell yes, he'd kick them! As soon as he got free he was going to kick all of their asses for even thinking about this - the sick bastards!

 

England gave another shake of the head, but France interjected, still pressing a handkerchief to his split lip. "I know we agreed to make this as easy on the boy as possible, Angleterre, but I think we should do as Ivan suggests. It's only a piece of clothing-" And France's physical well being. They all heard the unspoken words. Nor was he the only one nodding agreement with this logic.

 

It was Japan who aired the other obvious fact. "Kirkland-san, I believe given the nature of our assistance, the state of America-san's attire will be the least significant of his possible points of contention with us."

 

Somehow, despite everything else - despite the position he was in and all they'd said - those words really drove the fact home. He let his head thump back against the table, feeling his heart trying to batter its way through his ribcage and struggling not to show it. Even resolved as he was, he couldn't help the slight flinch as he heard the sound of fabric being cut and felt the cold metal of the scissors graze the skin on his leg.

 

America didn't want to see - but he couldn't help but look. It was England, at least... which did some good to the soaring panic trying to assert itself. Unfortunately, it settled something else in place, a heaviness in his chest that he couldn't identify and didn't want to. England's expression was one of intense concentration, his gaze never traveling upward to America's face as he cut away the material in a neat patch, uncovering the bound nation's crotch and rear. He even cut through the Superman boxers that Canada had given him last leap year. Exposed, America was limp - humiliated as the other countries looked him over with a cool speculation, as distant as if they were only contemplating a car or a piece of furniture.

 

For some reason he was surprised to see England move first - setting the scissors aside and sighing before sliding one hand down the front of his own belly and palming himself through his pants. Under other circumstances, it might have been an pleasing sight - England's cheeks were flushed the same red shade they always got when he was embarrassed or flustered - but there was no appeal in watching the man trying to get it up when he knew what would inevitably follow. Still, he couldn't tear his eyes away, mind logging away every motion - the way England's fingers rubbed, the slight turn of his wrist as he shifted his touches... even the moment where he could finally see the rising bulge of his arousal through the fabric.

 

He'd never seen England naked. It was a fact he'd never thought to regret until now.

 

In all the times he'd imagined how it might go, it had never been like this - held down and tied, put on display for the world to see... for them to use. And England... oh England... who'd been the first to hold him, the first to teach him, the first person he'd fallen in love with - would now be the first to break him.

 

"I'm going to kill you for this." America's voice was low, gritted out through his teeth in an effort to keep it from shaking. He was still the hero, damn it. "I'm going to break free and kick your sorry ass!"

 

"Do it then." The words pricked his balloon of rapidly swelling righteousness and left him with only tatters of confusion and fear. He gaped for a moment, not sure how to counter, then winced as he felt a single finger prodding between his cheeks, slick with lubricant.

 

"W-what?"

 

"Do it," England repeated. "Break the tape and do it. You could lift a buffalo as a child, Alfred. A bit of tape should be nothing." He was right, as much as America hated to admit it. Gritting his teeth, America struggled against the bindings. It was just weak, stupid tape, but it wouldn't budge. He tried again, straining until his muscles quivered with the effort. Blood burst onto his tongue as he bit his lip, fighting back the mounting embarrassment, the pricking at the corners of his eyes that might have been tears - of frustration, of humiliation... of a thousand more emotions all struggling to find their way to the fore. "You can't, can you?" England's voice was soft, almost sympathetic, and America hated him in that moment more than he'd ever hated anything before in his life. "If you could, we wouldn't have to do this..."

 

The probing digit applied some slight pressure and America yelped, bucking in protest as it pushed past the tight ring of muscle and into his body. It didn't hurt... precisely... but it burned, a steady ache, as the intruding finger slowly slid deeper into him. His face was aflame with embarrassment and anger - and inexplicably, shame, uncoiling itself low in his belly. He'd imagined something like this more than once in the past; sitting idly at conferences, teasing England to see how his face would flush with anger and wondering if it was the same as how he looked when he was aroused.

 

He'd imagined waiting after a meeting to find out - papers pushed from the conference table, unheeded, the sweet slickness of skin on skin. Hearing England whisper his name instead of yell it...

 

His harmless little fantasy was rapidly degrading in his mind. Whatever else happened, he wouldn't be able to think of the other nation in the same way. England's cheeks were flushed, but his expression was determination and not the affection and need that America had always pictured. Sometimes he'd even dared to hope that England felt the same way.

 

"Don't..." His voice was so soft that he barely heard it - because he didn't want any of the others to be witness to him actually pleading. "Arthur, please..."

 

His words had no effect. England only pressed his lips together in a tight line, his gaze fixed firmly on what he was doing. If anything of America existed except the hole England was stretching, he would never have guessed it from the blank expression on his face. The initial burn of his protesting muscles had faded away into a dull throb and a low pool of heat was forming in his belly. America cringed more at this betrayal of his body than at the act itself, digging his nails into his palms and hoping for this small pain to drive away the pleasure that was unspooling through his veins. It did nothing to quell the stirrings of arousal though, not even when he felt the skin break and the sticky warmth against his fingers.

 

A second finger nudged, as slick as the first, and America tried to clench. He wasn't sure himself if it was to keep this new intruder out, or to force the entry to become painful. Either way, it was a fruitless endeavor. England paused as soon as he tensed, his free hand stroking America's flank until the muscles began to relax, despite himself. The older nation's fingers were stretching and rubbing against his inner walls - gently but insistently forcing his body to relent and allow them to move more easily.

 

America gasped as the digits inside of him crooked, rubbing against a spot that had starbursts going off behind his eyelids. Soft whimpers rose from his lips as England rubbed that place again, his hips bucking - pushing toward the fingers as they withdrew. He hated his body as much as he hated England: the yawning ache left behind as England withdrew for a moment, the way his erection not only refused to ease, but actually seemed to be getting harder. There was more lubricant as he felt the renewed stretching of another finger being added, and he finally found his voice. "Just shove it in already!"

 

"Don't be ridiculous Alfred." England scolded him, green eyes finally rising to meet America's. "If I don't prepare you properly, this could be very painful for you."

 

No shit. "You're raping me, asshole!" America snarled, the venom in his own voice surprising even him. "It's supposed to hurt!" He could see it that time, the tremble in England's shoulders. He bent back to his task and said nothing, but America could feel the slight shake of the fingers inside him as England continued to rub and thrust carefully.

 

He didn't want it to feel good... he didn't want his stupid body to think he was enjoying what they were doing to him. If they'd simply taken him, he could have had his dignity and anger to hold on to - something to keep from losing himself. But his hips were already rocking toward England's hand in short, needy jerks, betraying him and leaving him with nothing to cling to.

 

America didn't want to want this... he would much rather have been their victim than their slut.

 

There was a wetness on his cheeks and it was the last humiliation he could bear. He turned his face away, eyes shutting so tightly that he could see swirls of color behind his eyelids. America couldn't see when England finished with his preparations but he could feel it; the finger sliding out of him. There was the whisper of a zip being lowered, then the nudge of something slick against his entrance. More damning than even that were the hands stroking at his sides: gentle, fluttering motions. They slowly shifted to rest on his hips, holding him steady, and America cringed in anticipation.

 

The burn was back as England - yes, even without looking, he knew it was England, that his once-brother and longtime crush was going to be the first... there was a certain sick irony to it all - began to push inside. The head of his shaft felt larger than his fingers, and America couldn't stifle the choked noise as his protesting muscles were forced to relent and allow entry. England applied a slow, steady pressure, sinking into the other nation's prone form until their bodies were flush against each other. America shivered at the unfamiliar sensation of being filled like this, clenching around the intruder and hearing England groan above him.

 

England remained still until the first shock of entry had passed and America's body began to relax around him - only then beginning to pull back. He retreated a scarce few centimeters before rocking forward again, a slow, shallow rubbing. The head of his length bumped against that sensitive spot and America arched with a strangled cry, molten pleasure surging through his veins. Once he'd found it, England seemed determined to batter that spot again and again, concentrating his thrusts until America sobbed with the heat flowing through his body.

 

"Arthur..." And, oh god... it was everything he'd wanted his first time to be like, and yet nothing at all. As powerful as the ecstasy rippling through him every inward jab of England's hips, was the accompanying sense of betrayal. It formed a cold knot in the pit of his belly that only grew with every gasp and groan to fall from his lips.

 

America could feel the sudden tensing as he mewled England's name, the falter in his thrusts. Then England leaned down, his body molding to America's as he shifted to long, slow strokes of his hips. America could feel the warmth of England's breath, and he couldn't help himself. He opened his eyes, his own bright with tears and roiling with all the sick emotions churning through him. Their faces were so close that they were almost kissing, England's expression as torn and twisted as America felt. "Alfred..." His own name, so soft that he felt it on his skin more than heard it.

_Don't_ , he thought, knowing what the older nation was thinking. The word never found voice as England closed those last couple of centimeters and captured his lips. America could feel the brittle snap in himself - that last tiny nudge over the edge: England daring to make this an act of love rather than what they both knew it was.

 

"I loved you." He whispered, when England finally drew back. "I loved you... and... and I hate you." His body trembled as the storm of his warring emotions battered at him. "...and I can't forgive you..."

 

He could see the truth of his words as they registered in those green eyes, the way the bright shade dulled. He could feel it in the slump of England's body, the tone of his thrusts changing, becoming shallower. England lowered his head until all America could see was the messy blonde spill of his hair, the motions of his hips becoming stiff and mechanical. England was utterly silent as he came, America cringing inwardly at the sticky rush filling his insides.

 

England drew out of him, backing up several steps. The other nations moved out of his way. America thought he should have felt a little bad as England's back hit the wall, his hands coming up to hide his face. He didn't though. He didn't feel much of anything except that black hole in his middle, sucking him dry. 

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I accidentally split the first chapter when I posted. This is technically the second half of chapter one.

 

 

The rest of the gathered nations looked at each other, none of them moving to either reassure England or take his place. The hesitation stretched out thin, then France eased away from the group, approaching America with a determined set to his jaw. The dark blue fabric of his uniform fluttered as he moved, but for once the showy nation was making no attempt to flaunt or swagger. America had seen that look in his eyes before - in the midst of wars they'd fought both together and against each other. It was moments like this that he remembered France could be dangerous when he was determined - that France had been one of the first to teach him how to fight. France had been beside him during the Revolutionary War and that was something that America had always remembered.  
  
Nothing France could do to him would cut as deeply as facing England had, but that didn't make it any easier to watch the man draw near and know what would follow. Both of them jerked in surprise as Germany's voice cut in, sharp, abrupt. "Nein." A slight cough, then softer... his tone almost gentle. "Italy should go first."  
  
America was almost tempted to ask why - they were all going to rape him in the end anyway, right? What did the order matter? Then Italy appeared in his sights, being ushered forward by Russia's hand tugging at the back of his collar, and America understood. They were probably afraid Italy was either going to run away or pass out... either of which looked like a distinct possibility.   
  
"H...h....hello? I...it's Italy..." The stuttering words were like a record caught on repeat. Useless, meaningless noises. America let his head fall back, letting out a shivering breath and feeling a moment of something like gratitude. He had no real personal attachment to Italy - no painful memories to be wrested to the surface. This act, at least, would be nothing beyond the violation of his body - coupled with the humiliation of being taken by Italy, of all the idiot nations out there. Italy, who was apparently so useless that it took France and Russia to get his pants down in preparation for this act...  
  
He felt Italy shaking as the smaller nation eased between his spread thighs and he had the sudden urge to laugh hysterically. America choked the noise down, shivering as he felt Italy bump against his slick hole, only half-hard. The floundering was almost as embarrassing for America as it had to be for Italy - a nudging that never quite gave way to penetration. Hands rested on the table on either side of his middle as Italy gave a sorry little hump that only slapped his limp flesh against America's ass. This continued for a few moments, with Italy whimpering and making choked little noises and accomplishing nothing other than making America not the most pathetic person in the room at the moment.  
  
America wanted to laugh - but not because it was funny. Instead he froze as Italy's head lowered until his face was buried against America's chest - he was either laughing or sobbing, but America wasn't sure which. Either way, he wanted to cringe back at the warm, sticky panting against his skin, but the bindings prevented him from being able to move.  
  
"I told you he wouldn't be able to do it." He recognized Romano's voice, as low and angry as always.  
  
"Nonsense." France replied, an odd tone coloring the briskness of his voice. "You'll see. Just a little tug." He reached out to twirl Italy's ahoge around one finger and America felt a surge of panic, knowing the result that would have. But he was wrong.  
  
It was as immediate as it was unexpected. Italy slid back off him, off of the table and out of sight entirely with a solid thump, all the while making a sound like a dying animal. The noise sent unpleasant prickles up America's spine. Normally if he'd heard something making a sound like that, he would have put it out of its misery. He imagined shooting Italy in the head and it only made him feel a tiny bit better.  
  
"French Bastard!" Romano spat, blissfully oblivious to Alfred's fantasies of what he would do if he had a gun right now. "Like any of this 'help' will actually fix America? Because you all obviously did such a good job at fixing my brother." He made a disgusted noise, then strode over, unfastening the front of his trousers. "I'll take care of this, but the next time you fuckers feel like including us in your sick little games, you'd better forget it. Come near us again and I'll rip your balls off!"  
  
The ahoge trick worked for Romano and America was given no time to prepare as the older of the two Italies slid into him with no opportunity for him to adjust. America was already slick with semen and lubricant, stretched from the first session, so while the abrupt entry was painful, he could feel nothing tearing. Romano moved quickly, his thrusts rocking America's prone form - the wet slap of their bodies coming together on each inward shift was enough to make him want to cringe. And if it hurt, it was still better... so much better... than England's tenderness. They both knew why they were here and Romano wasn't going to waste his time trying to pretend there was any way this could be lovemaking. America closed his eyes, letting out a shaking breath and just waiting for the other nation to be done with him.  
  
It was over almost as abruptly as it had begun, with the older Italy yanking at that dark curl with a roughness that matched his taking of America's body. The strangled noise in his throat as he came was undecipherable - his release a great deal less than England's had been. He pulled back with a wet pop that drew a yelp from America - his muscles clenching in involuntary spasms. England moved forward into his view, having apparently gained some sense of composure, grabbing for Romano's arm. "I told you to be gent-" his words were cut off into a low grunt of pain as Romano's fist caught him in the midsection.  
  
The other nations flinched at the impact, but America's gaze was steady - noticing everything about England in that moment with a sense of detachment that would have frightened him if he'd been able to feel anything. All sensation had centered itself somewhere between the bottomless black pit in his belly and the yawning ache between his spread thighs and neither left him any room for pity. He could feel the warm ooze of semen dribbling down the curve of his ass, christening the table below him as it dribbled from his body. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the hurt of it more than the accompanying disgust. But he was torn out of the mindless haze; not by Romano's yelling - "I told you not to come near us, asshole!" - but by the sudden plunge of a couple of large fingers into his throbbing hole. It didn't require the slight twist of the invading digits or the waft of hot breath on his skin, smelling of vodka, for him to know who those fingers belonged to.  
  
His eyes opened, despite himself, a different sort of humiliation fluttering through him as Russia pressed his fingers as deep as they would go. "Look at you, leaking all over the place." He said in that too-pleasant voice, "So wasteful already, da?" His fingertips bumped America's sweet spot, making him arch and whimper. His own length, mostly deflated during that business with the Italies, began to stir to life once again.  
  
America bit back a low moan as Russia prodded the spot again, movements cool and precise. He tried to turn his attention to something - anything - else: England curled in on himself, still groaning as he rubbed gingerly at his middle... Romano hauling his sobbing and trembling brother toward the door...  
  
Russia's finger slid from him and he was allowed a brief flare of relief at the withdrawal, then strong hands clamped at his bound thighs. There was barely time to register what was happening - the world flip-flopping around him for a couple of seconds, then Russia hilted himself in one thrust and a choked howl ripped from America's throat. Russia was larger than Romano or England, but the real agony was the cold of his body; it was like he'd just been impaled on an icicle.  
  
He felt the shivers wracking his body as Russia began to move - his world reduced to the quivering tendrils of pain and the numbness trying to spread its way up from his straining entrance. Distantly he could hear swearing, then warm hands were on him: stroking his cheeks, petting his hair. When he turned his head, he could see England there, half crawled onto the conference table beside him and murmuring reassurances in a way that took America back to the time when he'd been young and his 'big brother' could soothe away his hurts with just a kiss and a pat on the head. "It's okay, Alfred... it will all be over soon..."  
  
Another familiar touch and he felt a low quiver of shock as he looked to his other side and saw France there. "Amérique..." There was a furrow to France's blonde brows, his normally bright blue eyes darker than their usual shade, and America suddenly wanted to have his hands free for a different reason. He wanted to cling to their sleeves and be comforted - not caring that it was a childish desire that he'd long outgrown, or even that his former guardians were among his rapists. They could make it better. They always used to make things better.  
  
"Grand frère," he whispered, feeling France jerk slightly in surprise. England's expression twisted at the sound of the soft French falling from America's lips. Could England understand what he was saying? If he could, it didn't matter: he'd already betrayed America... "Arrête-les, s'il te plait... Je te promets que je serai sage." _-please make them stop. I promise I'll be good._ As much as he didn't want to, he was falling back into the tone of his youth, back when France had taught him the language. He'd been remarkably patient... helping America over his stumbles - patting him on the head and beaming with pride whenever he got the words right. America could tell France was thinking of those years too. He could read it in the way his breath came short, almost hitching, in the tremble of his lips as he tried to offer a reassuring smile.  
  
"Je suis désolé. Je suis vraiment désolé..." _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..._ France's voice came out low and tight, and America felt his heart plummet because an apology was not what he wanted to hear. Because what it meant was that France was like England. France wasn't going to save him...  
  
"Pourquoi est-ce que tu me fais mal? Est-ce que tu me détestes?" _Why are you hurting me? Do you hate me?_ His voice was pitching higher, laced with desperation and demand. Russia's powerful thrusts were hammering at his insides, but the pain in his chest was the feeling threatening to overwhelm him. He could feel England's fingers clench in his hair, another small pain.  
  
"Speak English, damn you!" The look on England's face was all the shades of frustration, brows furrowed and his green eyes glittering with the same anxiety that colored America's voice. He had no right to demand anything; America had no obligation to give anything to the man who'd just raped him. And yet, despite himself...  
  
"Why are you doing this to me?!" He moaned in reply, his breath coming short and hard, like all of his body's reactions were dictated by the nation moving between his thighs. "All I ever did was try to make things better! Was that wrong? I just... I just wanted..." America's voice trailed off, his gaze tearing away from their faces as his voice failed him. God... he'd just wanted to make them proud of what he'd accomplished - to prove that he could not only take care of himself, but everyone else too.   
  
"You wanted to be the hero, da?" America bristled as Russia spoke, then felt a stunned silence come over him at the words. "You saw that the world is a bad place and how you could fix it, if they would only listen to you. But they wouldn't. So you tried to take it in your own hands while they resisted and struggled the entire way. But you knew you were right." There was something about Russia's words - the sudden distance in his expression, like he was looking through America rather than at him... "But you would fix one problem and there would be three more. Like an old, rotten house, all the little things would come apart until you could only watch it all collapse around you.  
  
"And now here you lie. Look what your good intentions have brought you. Look how useless they are." America opened his mouth to utter some protest but his words were cut off again as Russia's large form bent down over him, their bodies coming flush. Russia's weight sat so heavily on him that he couldn't breathe, let alone talk. He was aware of France and England protesting as they were forced to pull their hands away for fear of being crushed beneath the icy nation but more than that, he was aware of the chill of Russia, the heaviness of the alcohol on his breath, the violet eyes glittering down at him with insanity in their depths. Fear shuddered through him as Russia's head lowered further, their faces almost touching. For one terrifying instant, he thought Russia was going to kiss him and the thought sent something slimy and cold crawling through his veins. Instead the other nation whispered, in a way that was felt more than heard. "Now, America... now you know how I feel."  
  
Hips slammed against him, a merciless hammering and he closed his eyes - not wanting to look at Russia and risk seeing anything that might remind him of himself. Russia made a sound like a laugh - madness dancing through his tone - and America felt the world going blurry around him as he struggled to pull in a breath of air beneath the crushing weight settled atop him. He could see bright flares of color behind his eyelids, his body trembling with the realization that he couldn't even get enough oxygen to keep himself conscious. England was yelling, but his voice was muffled by the cold fuzziness America felt himself sinking into.   
  
Then the world rushed back at him, the weight lifting from his chest and leaving him gasping and shivering with a new wetness trailing down the curve of his ass. By the time he could focus his vision, Russia was already a distance away, wrapped up in the long coat that did nothing to warm him. America was aware of Russia's gaze still on him though - his smile unfathomable. If Russia was not the worst, then America wasn't sure he was going to live through this... He could already feel himself, broken... splintering further with everything they did to him. When it was over, he wasn't sure if there'd be enough left of himself to be worth trying to put back together...

  
  
-


	3. Chapter 3

  
He flinched as he felt the brush of a hand against the side of his leg, jerking away from the touch as much as the bindings and the weakness in his limbs would allow. Even knowing it was useless, he couldn't bring himself to simply lay there and let them use him without protest. If England and France, the two nations here he was closest to, would give him no quarter, then he knew he could hardly expect it from anyone else. And if something of him was still intact, even a little - if he was still America - then it didn't matter that he was incapable of freeing himself; he still had to try.  
  
The touch didn't falter at his motions, nor did it settle - drifting along his leg, so light that he could barely feel it. "America." The sound of China's voice came as no reassurance. The Asian nation was chief among those with debts owed them. Before the financial collapse, China had been fairly lenient toward him - allowing the loans to accrue interest without any sign of serious complaint. His current debt to China was nothing short of astronomical. "I understand how you must feel, aru - but this has nothing to do with hate."  
  
He was forced to look at China, unable to read the tone of his voice but knowing that there had to be some lie hidden behind those words. The expression he was confronted with was one of complete seriousness. America tried to read the anger he knew had to be there, somewhere behind that calm exterior, and felt frustration welling in him as he couldn't find it. "Why else would you do this?" He hated the way his own voice came out; low and sullen.  
  
If he'd somehow hoped to provoke China into expressing anger - or hell, any kind of emotion, really - he failed miserably. "Because it's necessary, aru. Because the current state of the world means that we cannot ignore this problem or wait for you to find a solution yourself."   
  
Hands finally found his bare skin - fingers spreading his cheeks. America's face flushed crimson at the way the Asian nation leaned down and regarded his puckered hole like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. God... could China just get it over with already? It wasn't like his ass was that interesting! A finger brushed the rim of his entrance and though the touch was gentle, it still drew a low hiss from him. He'd been too focused on the possibility of asphyxiation when Russia had been rutting him into the table to really notice the pain of his taking. He was aware of it now... a throbbing ache throughout his lower regions.  
  
China made a soft noise in his throat, reading something in America's reaction. "Have you not been penetrated before this, aru?"  
  
His face flared with color again and he tried to draw his legs together, to hide himself from view - a futile effort at best. He heard a choked noise from his right and darted a glance at England, who had gone several shades paler. The hand petting at his shoulder faltered, drew back.  
  
"O-of course I..." He stuttered the words, the lie tangling in his throat. The table quivered as England slid down and out of his sight. China, in one of the few mercies America had been granted during this whole ordeal, said nothing to call him out on this untruth. Instead he pulled his hand back for a moment. When the fingers resumed their gentle prodding, they were slick with something cool and oily. Whatever it was, it was a welcome balm on the aching muscles, and China applied it with a brisk, practiced ease.  
  
This unexpected lack of physical pain did nothing to quell his shame, or the mounting resentment he was feeling toward China at being treated like he was an ignorant child. The nudge of hard flesh against his twitching entrance was a stark reminder that being talked down to like a child did not grant him the protections of one. His breath caught in his throat as the older nation began a slow slide inward, pausing every few centimeters to allow America a few moments to adjust.  
  
"Breathe, America." China's voice was soft, but the tone of it drew his attention, his head snapping around until their eyes locked. He'd never heard the older nation speak to anyone in such a manner before. Sure, he'd always known China was the oldest of the countries still around, but he'd never really been truly aware of what that meant. "Slowly. You can do this, aru."  
  
No, he thought, feeling a moment of panic he couldn't understand at those words. He couldn't do this. His realization of China's age made him also painfully aware of his own comparative youth. What was world-shattering for America was just another footnote in China's long history...   
  
"You can." It was like China had heard his thoughts - which for a wild moment seemed almost plausible. "You will."  
  
America let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the panic subsiding into anger. It was a cleaner emotion than the shame... more welcome. It cut through him in hot slashes with every motion of China's hips, until he felt like his insides were melting - becoming a hot and molten core. Was he angry at China? At all of them? At himself for not having the strength to stop them? He wasn't even sure - but the Asian nation caught on to the change more quickly than England had ever noticed his shifts in mood when the two of them had still been together.   
  
"Temper yourself, aru. Your anger can make you strong, but it will tear you apart if you let it." China's motions slowed, his voice softening with a note that was almost pity. America hated that - he always hated when China pulled that fortune cookie crap on him. But his hate couldn't find purchase - it sat on the surface instead of burrowing deep. "You are a child still, America...." China sounded like he'd reached some realization himself and he closed his eyes, brows furrowing as he gave a few shuddering thrusts of his hips - a soundless intake of air. America felt him shudder, felt the increasingly familiar sensation of sticky warmth filling his insides.   
  
China did not pull out immediately as he finished, opening his eyes again - as deep and dark as the vast expanse of space... and as unfathomable. "I am sorry, America." He wasn't sure what the apology was for, but he knew somehow that it wasn't because of the physical act itself.  
  
He let out a shivering breath as China pulled out of him, feeling the heat of his anger ebbing beneath the apology he couldn't even understand. He clung desperately at the remnants of it, even as China put himself back in order. Some part of him was aware of China moving off, of China's voice low and sharp and England's pained response - none of their words audible enough for him to make out what they were saying. It didn't matter, because the majority of his attention was focused on the nation who had taken China's place.  
  
Japan. God... In the long years after the war, he'd thought the two of them had become... well... friends. They had so many interests in common... he remembered the early days of cultural exchange, learning more about Japan's foods and his weird backward comics. America had even come to like sushi, though nothing Japan could do would ever make tea palatable.   
  
He remembered Japan... broken and bleeding in the aftermath of the war. America remembered reaching out a hand to help him up - and Japan, who should have knocked it aside and told him just what he could do with himself.... instead he'd taken it. The memories tried to overlay themselves on the Japan in front of him and he struggled to keep them separate. This could not be Kiku, his friend, the person he hung out and played video games with... This wasn't Kiku. He was only Japan. That was all America wanted him to be.  
  
"America-san." - _Alfred, Kiku. Call me Alfred. We're friends now, aren't we?_ \- Japan seemed at a loss for words, like he too was aware of the awkwardness, the wrongness, of this.   
  
Oh god... he didn't think he could listen to Japan trying to apologize to him. It threatened to blur the line between Japan, his friend and Japan, the nation who was about to stick it up his ass. "J-just do it, Kiku." He cringed inwardly at his own slip, saw Japan turn his head away a little as well.  
  
And Japan didn't look at him as he undid the front of his pants, his gaze fixed at a point somewhere on the far wall as he began to stroke himself. Whatever he was thinking about - some hentai, probably... America thought feeling a bubble of hysterical laughter threatening - it didn't seem to be that interesting, because his arousal was coming only slowly.  
  
America let out a breath, feeling it hitch in his throat. The waiting made him aware of his discomfort - not just the throbbing of his hind end, but the tingling numbness in his hands where they were pinned. He hissed as he tried to move them and felt the attempt sending flares of pain up his arms. His shoulders ached and no amount of wriggling seemed to be able to ease the pressure on them.  
  
His motions drew a low murmur of sound on his left, where France was still sitting beside him. He felt France shift, then gave a soft yelp of surprise as he felt hands sliding beneath his shoulders and raising his upper body. For a moment the pain in his bound limbs was blinding, then he was lowered again. America panted a little as he became aware of his new position - half-raised with his upper body braced on France's lap... The back of his head rested against his older brother's belly. It would have been humiliating, if not for the greater shame of this entire situation... and the fact that his hands were no longer pinned between his back and the table. Fingers stroked delicately through America's short hair, soft sounds that weren't really words falling from France's lips. And as much as America didn't want it to... it helped... just a little.  
  
He was so hyper-aware of France's fingers carding through his hair, that he jerked in shock at the sensation of something hard bumping against him. Japan guided the head of his member to rub against America's slippery hole, hesitated, then started to slowly feed it inside. He was already loose enough that it didn't hurt - it was just a feeling of pressure, an uncomfortable fullness as Japan sank completely into his body.  
  
"America-san." His voice, normally calm, dropped low to hide the waver. "Alfred..." The sound of his own name set something to clawing at America's insides - a familiarity so rarely invoked by the restrained nation. He might have ignored the words otherwise - in all of this, it was the words which sank the knowledge deep into him - but he couldn't ignore the use of his name, not in that tone. He looked at Japan, looked when he should have defied. Their friendship meant that much to him at least... even if it was falling to pieces around them.  
  
 _'Why, Kiku? I know you, or I thought I did... What did they say that made you want to throw away everything we've had together as friends? You're smarter than that... you knew it wouldn't survive this. Why?'_ "Why did you agree, damn you?!" He hissed the words, locking his gaze with Japan demanding an answer. "Tell me! You owe me that much!"  
  
Japan let out a breath, the motions of his hips faltering. "Your economy was struggling, Am- Alfred," The drop of his formal address was clear and deliberate. "And this was the best - the only - way we could think of to keep it from falling further."  
  
It made no sense... but it tickled at a memory... France approaching him with the suggestion of sex, a few other names dropped into the mix as well. It had taken him a few moments to realize that the other nation was asking him to get involved in some kind of international orgy - like Japan, or Germany, or hell... like England would ever agree to this, even if America did. And America wouldn't... however ridiculous any of the others might consider it, he'd made a promise and meant to keep it. So, of course, he'd refused. Never. Don't ask me again.  
  
Well... they hadn't _asked_ him...  
  
"Relations with other countries act as a stimulant... Did you truly not know of this, America-san?" Japan said, his voice as soft and level as ever, but something else lurking behind his dark eyes. "You weren't there when the Allies helped me rebuild... but I thought it might have been your idea." He lowered his head, shifting back to a quick, steady rhythm, "I am sorry for that."  
  
America wasn't sure which of those revelations was making his guts twist inside out. So all of the other nations in the world - even the ones he'd thought of as sexual non-entities - spent all of their time fucking each others troubles better? Did being a nation equate to being a hedonist out of sheer necessity? Why the hell couldn't someone have bothered telling him? And really, what part of 'Sorry, but I'm not interested in sleeping with you' garnered 'Please tie me up and have everyone ram it up my ass" as an appropriate response?  
  
He wanted to laugh hysterically. He wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. He wanted to break free and beat them into a bloody pulp and remind them all of why you didn't fuck with America.  
  
Most of all, he wanted for this all to be some kind of terrible dream, so he could wake up and everything would be better...  
  
"I thought we were friends..." His voice was so small it didn't even sound like it belonged to him.   
  
"Alfred..." - _America, Kiku... It's just America. Never Alfred... never again._ \- "I'm sorry." Again, that apology, but they both knew it wasn't going to make anything better. He turned his face away and heard a noise like a sigh - hollow and resigned.  
  
Japan bit back on any other words, speeding his motions up as though getting this over with faster could make it hurt less. As stretched and slippery as America was, there was no resistance left in his body. He was a little grateful that his body showed no interest either - his own member lay limp against his belly. Japan made no effort to hit that one spot inside him that might stir him back to arousal and he knew it was on purpose. The last consideration the ghost of their friendship could allow.   
  
He could feel the slight twitch of the shaft inside him as Japan finally came, waiting a moment before slowly pulling out. Neither of them looked at each other, though America was aware of Japan pulling out a handkerchief and wiping himself clean. Then Japan dabbed away some of the semen staining the bound nation's backside and America turned his face away as a couple of rogue droplets crept down his cheeks.  
  
"You were a good friend, Kiku," he whispered to the empty air and let the tears come, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs, inconsolable.  
  
He let out a deep breath as Japan's touch fell away, a silent pause stretching out for what felt like an eternity. Another hand brushed his inner thigh and it didn't take a genius to figure out who it belonged to; just a knowledge of basic math. There were only two members of the G8 left - minus himself and Canada - and he was still half propped against France's lap. Even knowing, though, he still couldn't suppress the urge to look.  
  
Germany. Of course it was Germany. And he looked about as thrilled with the situation as America was. He looked angry really, but Germany only came with two settings: exasperated and pissed off (and a third one that was sort of a mix of the other two, but that was usually reserved for one idiot in particular). As America's eyes flitted over his face, the corners of Germany's mouth pulled into a scowl. His fingers twitched, pulled into fists, then slowly uncurled again. After a long hesitation, he reached up and tugged the Knight's Cross he wore up over his head, brushing his thumb over it before sliding it into the pocket of his suit jacket.  
  
Unlike the others, Germany seemed to have something more specific in mind, catching hold of America's hips and turning him over. The captive nation grunted as the move jolted his already aching limbs - only France's quick interference preventing his head from smacking the table as he was moved. He heard soft swearing in French and knew somehow that it wasn't meant for him. A bit more shifting and his head was resting in France's lap. He couldn't help the tendrils of gratitude snaking through his body as he noticed his brother didn't seem to find this situation to be sexually appealing, otherwise this position would have been awkward. Well... more awkward.  
  
A couple of fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants, tugging them down until they slid off as far as the bindings on his legs would allow. His boxers followed, though it was clear that taking them off was hardly a necessity at this point. Still, their lack made him shiver with a new vulnerability... It was a different sort of humiliation to be taken from behind like some kind of animal. Germany was silent as his hands moved, running along the smooth globes of America's ass in a gesture that somehow felt more intimate than actual sex. He turned his head as much as he could, trying to catch some glimpse of what Germany was up to.  
  
The large nation had his eyes closed, his pants already undone and his member standing at half mast. His hands traced the lines of America's sides, finding the slight dip of his hipbones and brushing a fingertip over the spot before trailing his palms upward and underneath the hem of the rumpled shirt. Germany's explorations halted as he brushed a scar on America's lower back, one of the many remnants of the Civil War. America could see enough of his expression to make out the way his brows furrowed, lips pulling tight, then he couldn't bear to watch anymore.  
  
He'd thought he couldn't be reduced any lower than being made a whore for all the nations he worked with... Leave it to Germany to find the one thing worse than that. Bad enough to be nothing more than a glorified sperm receptacle but at least the others had been thinking of him - seeing him.   
  
Germany spread his cheeks with the fingers of one hand, the move causing a renewed trickle of fluid down his skin. America felt the tip of Germany's shaft against his hole, but instead of penetrating, the other nation was rubbing at him - the rounded head stroking up and down against his twitching entrance, an almost ticklish sensation. He was barely getting over wondering what the hell Germany was doing when the rubbing faltered, stopped. A couple of seconds later, he was penetrated, his back trying to arch as the man sank into him. He wasn't as big as Russia, but there was still a low burn as he pressed inside. America buried his face against France's thigh as he felt Germany's lower regions come flush against his rump, letting out a slow, shivering breath.  
  
When Germany began to move, it was different than he'd expected: slow, smooth strokes of his hips, finding that spot inside America that made him groan and clench in unwilling ecstasy. Warm palms smoothed their way up his thighs, rubbing gently at his sides - fingers stroking the curve of his spine. Demeaning position aside, it felt almost like lovemaking...  
  
The motions of Germany's body did not falter as the large nation bent down over him, molding to his back. One hand braced itself on the table beside America's shoulder, while the other reached up to knead at the back of his neck. Fingers moved up, ruffling through his hair, going to a spot near his left ear.   
  
Stopping. Drawing back. The rhythm of his thrusts changing and becoming deeper and longer as Germany grunted something in his native tongue that America thought might have been a swear word - it was really hard for him to hear anything through the hammering of his own heartbeat, though, so he couldn't be sure. It wasn't a gentle lovemaking anymore, but a hard pounding into his tender passage that made him cry out in a desperate yowl.  
  
"Stop! Please-!" His words cut off into a strangled, inarticulate sound of agony - his insides were on fire...  
  
He could hear France's voice rising in protest, could hear England swearing like a sailor, and a firm, calm tone that might have belonged to China somewhere behind it all. Something hit the table near him and he flinched, opening his eyes to see the familiar black and silver of the cross only a short distance from his face. Then Germany pressed deep - deeper than it felt like it was possible for him to go - and America could hear a strangled whisper against his ear, a name. And he closed his eyes again and shuddered as he felt the man come inside of him.  
  
America's body trembled as Germany drew out, pain still licking along his nerve endings. He panted harshly against France's leg for a moment before Germany's hand came into his view, too close for comfort. America flinched back as the other nation picked up the Knight's Cross, unable to keep his eyes from darting warily to Germany.  
  
Germany didn't look at him. Germany looked down at the cross he was holding in his palm and his features twisted into an expression that looked a lot like what America was feeling. He yanked his pants up with one hand, pushing past the other nations roughly and making a quick retreat toward the door. There was a heavy clank of something hitting the bottom of the metal trashcan, then the door slammed hard enough to make the walls of the room shake.  
  
France petted his hair, cooing gently to him until the pain began to ebb into a low ache that pervaded his entire body. His shoulders and arms throbbed, his legs were almost numb except for the occasional jabbing of pins and needles. "It's okay," France was murmuring low, "It's over now." Fingers stroked his cheeks, brushing away the dampness.  
  
"It's almost over..." From the sudden tenseness in France's muscles, the slight jerk of his fingers against America's skin, he'd been caught off-guard by the words. "You... you haven't-" England choked on the rest of that sentence, chose not to say it when they knew what he meant anyway. "We agreed to this, Francis."  
  
"I know, Angleterre. I know we did." America felt some childish part of himself threatening to throw a screaming fit at the resignation in France's tone, but he hadn't the energy or the voice to express this desire properly. France was already moving and all America would think about was what would come... what he'd already been through. What it would mean.  
  
"Please..." He gasped the word, wishing he could steady his shaking voice. It sounded more helpless than he liked - like he'd slipped back into himself pre-Revolution; not the voice of a strong nation, but of a weak colony. "Please don't do this." And when France hesitated - just the barest second, just enough for him to catch it, "You're all I have left."  
  
"Merde..." France growled the word, but he eased America off of his lap and onto the table, sliding to his feet and slipping out of sight. He was gone from view just long enough for America to begin hyperventilating as a bout of panic seized him, a crushing fist squeezing his chest until it felt like his heart would stop. He jumped as he felt France's hand on his elbow, then froze at the cool brush of metal against the skin of his wrist. There was the faint sound of snipping scissors and the whisper of parting tape, then the feeling rushed back into his hands so quickly that it set his nerves aflame. America let out a choked sound of pain, flexing his fingers and hissing as they tingled.  
  
The bindings on his legs were next, and he was gently rolled onto his back, barely able to move his stiff body at all. He looked up into France's blue eyes, hope daring to raise its head for the first time since this whole ordeal had begun. But the look he was seeing was not benediction, but a sort of sickened determination.  
  
France's hands rubbed at his hips, his bare thighs. "I am sorry, Amérique..." Fingers brushed across his abdomen, moving toward his groin. "They are right. We had an agreement. If it were not all of us, we would not have done this. And... I must keep my word." His fingertips slid along the underside of America's length, which twitched traitorously in response to the touch. America was dimly aware of the other nations, but the room was receding around him until his entire awareness was on France.  
  
The older nation bent down over him, a position that seemed inherently vulnerable now that America's hands were free. He could have struck France across the head, or even caught hold of that exposed neck and simply squeezed. He could have... but his limp fingers didn't want to move, his hands were useless; nothing but clumsy paws. France had only to nudge at his thighs before they fell open, unable to offer any sort of resistance. He bit his lip as he felt nimble fingers cupping his sacs, kneading the sensitive flesh until his hips couldn't help but buck.  
  
"Why are you doing this?" He mewled, his emotions twisting and knotting inside him. "Why can't you just rape me? Why do you have to make it feel good?" The same question he'd asked England, and he wasn't sure why he thought he might get an answer from his other big brother. America was already completely hard beneath France's hands, his shaft twitching with each steady stroke.  
  
A sigh that might have been his name, words he couldn't quite make out.  
  
"What?" America demanded, anger dancing in his voice. "What did you say?"  
  
"Because..." The words dragged themselves out again, but audible this time. "You don't deserve to be hurt. For all the mistakes you've made... with the economy... we share a part of the blame. And the punishment for us..." His fingers touched America's cheek, their eyes locked, and for the first time it really registered that France was hurting too. "It's this..." He closed his eyes and lowered his head until all America could see was the wavy blonde of his hair. "Don't look at me like that, Amérique. I can't give you what you want from me. All I can give you is this truth, and perhaps a bit of pleasure to ease your pain." The younger nation tried to speak, though he wasn't sure what he was going to say - what anyone could say to that - but his words were cut off as he felt France's warm mouth envelop his aching arousal.  
  
His chest rose and fell in quick bursts, head tipping back as he pressed into the heat, despite himself. It was a different kind of torment... and it was nothing at all like the touch of his own hand, the only thing he had to compare to. Somehow, France was finding sensitive areas that had completely escaped America over the past couple of centuries; his tongue pressing up beneath the head in short flicks that were driving the young nation insane. America panted, feeling a bead of sweat trickling down to the hollow of his throat. He bit down on a cry of protest as he tried to lift his hips and press further into that teasing mouth, only to be halted by France's hands on his thighs, holding him down.  
  
America's eyes opened just enough to give him a hazy view of France through his fogging glasses. His once-brother pulled back for a second, lapping at just the tip before doing some kind of swirl thing with his tongue that had America howling with what little air he could still muster. He arched up as France's head bobbed down and he felt the warm tickle of the other nation's breath on his skin as he was taken in all the way to the root. Fingernails dug into his palms, his body stuttering, wobbling dangerously on the cusp. The precipice loomed before him and he couldn't save himself from tumbling over the edge.  
  
For all of his usual bluster and enthusiasm, his climax was completely silent. The world went blank around him for a couple of seconds and then he came back to himself, limbs trembling in the aftermath. France swallowed around him before raising his head again, looking at America with worry gleaming in his eyes. Hands stroked his cheeks, his sweat-damp hair, tracing the curve of his jaw before skirting away from his face. There was the faint too-familiar sound of fabric rustling and America could do nothing but close his eyes, sigh and wait for what he knew would come.  
  
France didn't keep him waiting for long. America felt the initial penetration and was oddly removed from it - like he wasn't fully attached to his own body. It didn't hurt, even though he wished it would. It was like the area was completely devoid of feeling - a numbness that was starting to creep its way upward.  
  
Unlike the nations before him who strove to get themselves deep as quickly as possible, France's tactic was a short amount of penetration followed by a controlled rocking. It might even have felt good - such was expected from the Nation of Love, anyway - but for America there was nothing. He waited and breathed, counting his heartbeats until France was settled in place. Arms crept around him, drawing him up and against France's chest, one hand cradling the back of his head, and then the world did a flip-flop.  
  
It took a few seconds for him to regain his bearings. America shifted, felt his own weight drawing him down into France's lap. His knee bumped the back of the chair as France settled them both into place.   
  
The change of position left him floundering inside, trying to regain that comfortable numbness. He found he couldn't, not with the warmth of France beneath him - their bodies touching along their entire fronts. He could feel France's heartbeat through the fabric of his clothes, every breath like an echo of his own. Then the other nation was moving, rocking upward into him, and America was forced to throw his arms around France to steady himself.  
  
"Calme toi, mon amour" _Relax, my love._ France was whispering to him. "It will be okay, you'll see. Your big brother will take care of you."  
  
No... No, it wouldn't be okay... America buried his face against France's neck. "Si tu m'aimes tellement, comment as-tu pu me faire ça?" _If you love me so much, how could you to this to me?_ He felt France stiffen, draw a sharp breath at his words.  
  
A long moment of quiet with only the slick wet sounds of their coupling to break the silence, then France sighed. "Désolé, mon petit. On voulait juste t'aider." _I'm sorry, little one, we only meant to help you._  
  
America's fingers clenched in the back of France's shirt as the other nation began to move more quickly, hands sliding beneath his thighs to help raise him a little. The breaths ruffling his hair grew shorter, harsher, France's hardness plunging deep. He could feel when France came - not just in the hot rush filling his passage, but in the slight catch in the rise and fall of his chest, the quiver in his muscles. It was like a vicarious echo of France's climax.   
  
Then the motions stilled, though France didn't withdraw immediately. His hands stroked at America's back, rubbing in soothing motions. And he asked the one question he should never have asked - that he didn't deserve to ask.  
  
"Amérique... pourra-tu jamais me pardonner?" _America, can you ever forgive me?_  
  
He didn't want to answer. Answering would make it all real. But he had to. "Non." He whispered, felt France shake beneath him at those words. America wasn't sure if the hitch in his breath was his own, or France's... or both. Either way, he drove the words home - fired them like a bullet from a gun, to put the uncertainty down. It was better this way. Faster. No room left for hope. "Non, je ne pense pas" _No, I don't think I can._  
  
France's arms around him tightened, clinging to him and he found himself hanging on too, like two children in a thunderstorm, afraid to let go of each other. They would never have this again.  
  
America quivered as he felt fabric being draped over his back, turned a little with eyes wide, to see England tucking a blanket around him. He gasped as he felt France finally slide free, the world swimming dizzily around him as his two guardians wrapped him up in the warm fabric.  
  
"Alfred..." England's voice, so gentle he barely recognized it. It took him a moment before he realized that was even his name... that he was Alfred. "It's all over now. Just... just relax. We're taking you home, okay?" As if he could protest. America closed his eyes as he was lifted, his head falling against England's shoulder. Somewhere beneath the dimness, he was surprised that England could lift him so easily.   
  
He was swimming in and out of consciousness throughout the entire trip back. If anyone they passed found something amiss at seeing two men carrying a third wrapped in a blanket, he would never know. He roused just a little as he was laid down on a bed, just breathing for a few seconds. Hands tugged away the tattered remainders of his pants, removing his coat and shirt as well, and he made an inarticulate noise of protest, kicking his feet a little. He had no energy to fight as his legs were parted again, his foggy brain barely able to register a sense of wrongness to the move. He let his thighs slowly fall open to expose himself to the man attending to him.  
  
He didn't see what was so interesting down there, though there was an unpleasant dribbling from his hind end that brought a hint of color to his cheeks. He tried to clench and hold it in, but his muscles were refusing to obey him. A soft mew of protest escaped him and he tried to draw his thighs together, only to find strong hands propping them open. Blue eyes blinked hazily as he felt a finger prodding where it shouldn't have gone and again he put up a weak struggle, trying to wrest free.  
  
"Stop it..." He whined low. "I didn't make a mess..." Okay, so the lie was obvious, but he was too tired to come up with anything better. And the touching did stop.  
  
"I know you didn't, Alfred," The voice was reassuring, but it was also shaking just a bit. "You've just... you've been sick. But it'll all be better soon."  
  
"Promise?" Not asked, really. Demanded.  
  
"Y...yeah. I promise." He hummed uncertainly in his throat but he laid still as he felt a warm, damp rag wiping his nethers clean. A hand ruffled at his hair and he caught hold of the trailing sleeve and clung to it, making soft sounds of dissatisfaction. He only quieted as he felt the bed dip slightly, arms sliding around him. He curled into the warmth, wondering who was crying and what was making them so sad. There were voices in the background but the words only drifted on the surface.  
  
 _"I can't stand seeing him like this... It wasn't... I just didn't think it would hurt so much..."_  
  
"Angleterre... this will pass. I can only suggest you hold him as long as he'll let you."  
  
"God... it was never supposed to be like this..."  
  
The world around him slowly faded to black.  
  
  
-  
  


Click.

Click.

  
  
He was curled on the couch in front of the TV. He didn't remember moving. The remote dangled from his hand, thumb punching idly at the up button. It didn't matter what was on. He wasn't even paying attention.  
  


Click.

  
  
He was naked underneath the blanket. It felt wrong somehow... off. A pillow was squeezed between his legs, covering himself. The light from the television reflected off his glasses.  
  


Click.

  
  
There was nothing on worth watching. 600 Channels. That was always the way, wasn't it?  
  


Click.

  
  
His head dropped to rest on the arm of the sofa. The position was putting a crick in his neck. That didn't matter either.  
  


Click.

  
  
His eyes fluttered shut - the darkness behind his lids was more interesting than the TV anyway. His thumb kept pressing the button, slower now, hints of speech barely audible since he wasn't flipping through fast enough to silence them.  
  


Click.

_\- and the Amazing Slice-O-Matic can be yours for only three easy payments of 19.99 if you call within -_

Click.

_\- just like that. There was nothing anybody could do. It isn't fair, there's no reason. But if we start asking why, we'll go crazy. -_

Click.

  
  
Somewhere in it all, the remote had slipped from his fingers but they still made the motion, clinging tenaciously to something that wasn't there anymore. His body was already giving up the ghost though, dragging him down, and the TV droned on in the background.  
  


_The unexpected outpouring of financial support from several of the US's closest allies has_  
caught Washington off guard. Nonetheless, top officials hasten to assure us that the funds  
will be put to good use in stimulating the country's flagging economy.

In other news, the unexpected front creeping across the Midwest has scientists worried.  
Preliminary reports suggest that we may be in for record breaking cold temperatures. They  
suggest preparedness - and advise all people in the storm's path to stock up, stay at home  
and try to keep warm.

In Sports...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Vow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554422) by [AnonymousVow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousVow/pseuds/AnonymousVow)




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